


À la Recherche du Temps Perdu

by firebreathing_bitchqueen



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Based on historical events, Haircuts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Operas, Pre-Canon, Rating May Change, Waltzing, after centuries with each other it's just facts, fin de siècle Vienna, listen I refuse to believe that AxN wasn't a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:15:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28010772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebreathing_bitchqueen/pseuds/firebreathing_bitchqueen
Summary: It is the winter of 1889, and the heir apparent to the Hapsburg empire has been found dead in the woods of Vienna. Suspecting supernatural involvement, the Agency has tasked Adam and Nate with investigating the already infamous Mayerling Incident.
Relationships: Adam du Mortain/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Comments: 21
Kudos: 30





	1. Eros Matutinus

**Author's Note:**

> This is one hundred percent an excuse to nerd out about fin de siècle Vienna and indulge my obsession with the Hapsburgs. And, you know, to imagine the flirting and what-ifs of attraction that definitely sparked between N and A. 
> 
> The Mayerling Incident is very real, although (as far as we know) there was no supernatural involvement.

_"Why hast thou lived? Why hast thou suffered?"_

_Gustav Mahler, July 1888_

_"People who were not born then will find it difficult to believe, but the fact is that even then time was moving faster than a cavalry camel.… But in those days, no one knew what it was moving towards. Nor could anyone quite distinguish between what was above and what was below, between what was moving forward and what backward."_

_Robert Musil, 1953_

–

“Are you sure?”

“It’s inefficient, and I’m tired of it falling in my eyes.”

“You know a variety of products exist that can solve that problem.”

Even without looking at his face, Nate can hear the derisive scowl in Adam’s voice. “And yet I am only interested in one product: scissors.”

Nate sighed and reached for the scissors and comb on the table beside him. The two of them were in the surprisingly (unnecessarily, Adam had groused) spacious en-suite kitchen of their hotel room. Outside the window, several storeys below, the bluster and bustle of the snow-swept Ringstrasse painted a deceptively idyllic picture of the city where the two had been sent a few days prior. From this height, through the frosty leaded pane of the window, it was easy to forget the uglier realities down below.

The year was 1889 and Vienna – indeed, the entire Austro-Hungarian empire – was a land of spectres, the ghosts of a new century come calling to every man, woman, and child across the empire. For the past decade, everyone had been buzzing with the nervous energy of the fin de siècle, seeming to sense that they were on the precipice of much more than the changing of time alone. The Imperial City was no stranger to tumult but, lately, it had been more fizzing, its splendor shivering with nerves. Last week, the Crown Prince Rudolf, heir apparent to the Hapsburg’s empire, had ostensibly committed suicide alongside his paramour, Mary Vetsera. The two had been ensconced at Mayerling, in the prince’s hunting lodge approximately fifteen miles outside the city center, deep within the _Wienerwald_ , encircled with now-snowy black firs.

The death of the Crown Prince was, in fact, why Nate and Adam were here. Though the empire seemed willing to believe the apparent facts of the lovers’ untimely deaths, the Agency took a somewhat different view of the matter. Everything was too neat, too tidily accounted for, right down to the conveniently found letters from Baroness Vetsera, confirming their intentions – two star-crossed lovers taking the fearful passage of death-marked love.

No, the Agency had questions and suspicions, which is what brought the two vampires to the Imperial City.

But first…

First, there was the apparently emergent matter of Adam’s hair, all honey and burnished gold, curling now around his ears and collar, the ends flipping up slightly with the overgrowth.

He sat ramrod straight in the chair set before Nate, cutting an almost comically contrasting figure when juxtaposed with the glossy rosewood, curlicued carvings, and silk jacquard cushion of the bergère chair on which he sat. Nate indulged himself in a brief, soft smile at the picture, then reached for a tea towel with his free hand. He rested the linen cloth on his friend’s broad, stiff shoulders, gently wrapping it around them. He had to stoop slightly as he moved to stand facing Adam, fingers brushing Adam’s throat soft and fleeting as the snowfall outside, curling to tuck the ends of the tea towel in under the edges of Adam’s shirt collar, smoothing down the wrinkles along his collarbone, the top of his chest, the warmth of him just beneath the fabric.

Reaching out, tilting his chin up it up just so, fingertips pressed to the one place he was still child-soft, fresh-shaven skin smooth and warm in the chill of the kitchen, perhaps the last piece of Adam that still retained the unworn newness of human youth. Each one's eyes on the other's, sea glass and peat.

“Keep your chin up, or I can’t promise it won’t be uneven.”

A noise and blink of assent, no nod, just preternatural stillness.

He moved behind him again, dragged the comb gently through his hair, smoothing the lines of it, straightening the part. Flipped the comb, sandwiched it securely between his knuckles and smoothed the hair around Adam’s ears with his fingers, curling Tupelo-bright strands around the shell of his ear, fingers curving along the back of it. Nate let his fingertip rest briefly, so briefly, in the warm hollow where earlobe connected, another hidden soft spot, felt the thrum of his pulse. Thought of Mendel. Freed the comb from his knuckles, pulled it through the flicked-up end curls along Adam’s nape and down, where it almost touched his shoulders.

“Just clip all of it,” Adam said, and Nate almost physically recoiled.

“I will not.” He sounded almost affronted.

Though of course he couldn’t have seen it from where he stood, the twitch of a smile, of fondness, was evident in Adam’s voice. “I apologize if I’ve offended your aesthetic sensibilities.”

Nate didn’t suppress his own smile. “Aesthetics aside, if I cut it too short, you’ll look woefully out of place. We’re meant to blend in, after all.”

Adam sighed. Though he wasn’t one to seek attention or unwanted perusal, he didn’t much care for the fleeting fancies of _haute couture_ , the ephemeral rages of societies bound to their own time, not when he himself was so removed from it. The bonds of time had long forfeited any claim to him.

Still, he couldn’t deny the common sense in Nate’s gentle protest. “As you say,” he relented. Then: “But as short as you think we can get away with, then. Please.”

“Agreed,” Nate said, gave Adam's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Fashionable and functional are not mutually exclusive."

–

Long fingers in his hair, the warmth of gentle hands against his shoulders, his neck, steadying his head. The soft curl of breath on his cheek when Nate crouched to clip carefully the shorter, spikier strands in front of his ears. He was so close to him then, individual personal spaces melded to a shared bubble. Adam felt the inexplicable prickle of gooseflesh at the featherlight-firm hold on Nate’s hands on his face, left hand resting, on almost cupping, the back of his neck, the cool slide of silver blades just above his ear, the backs of curled fingers, ring and pinkie, ghosting along his jawline.

Then those same hands lifted, riffled through his hair, tousling the shorn strands, brushed his shoulders briskly, a scattered bright confetti of clipped hair snow-falling to the kitchen floor. Pulled the towel from his shoulders, untucked it from his shirt collar, carefully sweeping it back to keep from spilling prickly shards of dark gold on his neck, the hypersensitive skin there, the nerve-endings already too alive, alert for any touch of sensation, any trace of contact. And then they were gone, those hands, reaching instead now for a silver-backed hand mirror, then extended to offer it to him.

Nate’s hand brushed Adam’s as he took the proffered looking glass, and some part of Adam marveled, distantly, observed the striking contrast of their hands alongside each other, sienna gold-dust against rose-petal ivory. Silver pane lifted to his face, Nate’s face visible over his shoulder, the eyes of their reflections met, another contrast, another fire-glow warmth in the chill-dead of winter.

Adam’s head felt lighter. Had his hair been so heavy?

“What do you think?” Nate asked, quicksand smile and resonant basso profundo voice rich and sonorous in the particular, padded quiet of winter when it snows.

“This is perfect,” Adam answered.


	2. music fell into your altered heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Music: breathing of statues. Maybe:  
>  silence of paintings. You language where languages  
> end. You time  
> standing straight up on the path of vanishing hearts.”  
> \- Rainier Maria Rilke_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of my purely self-indulgent love letter to my favorite city (now with dancing!). Someday I will catch up on replying to the lovely comments y'all have been leaving on this, but please know how happy it makes me that y'all are enjoying reading this almost as much as I am writing it.

_“Touch has a memory.”_ _  
\- John Keats_

_  
_ _“Music: breathing of statues. Maybe:  
_ _silence of paintings. You language where languages  
_ _end. You time  
_ _standing straight up on the path of vanishing hearts.”  
_ _\- Rainier Maria Rilke_

—

“Your posture is wrong.”

“My posture is _excellent._ ”

Two voices, both controlled and level but only one relaxed, filled the quiet morning air of the little suite on the Ringstrasse.

“Unfortunately, dear friend, for these purposes it is not,” Nate said patiently, and Adam didn’t need to look up at him to know that he was smiling; he could hear the gentle, good-humored warmth of it in his voice.

If ever I go blind, Adam thought, at least I shall always be able to tell whether I’m being laughed at. He wasn’t, though; for all the humor in the smile he heard, he _felt_ Nate giving him, he knew just as well that there was no mockery in it, only fondness, as gently good-natured as the man whose smile he did not need to see.

He did look up, though, lifting his eyes from their careful study of his feet to meet those of his friend. The smile Adam had heard in his voice glimmered in his dark eyes, too, as Adam had known it would.

He did not say any of this, of course, as he met Nate’s gaze.

“This is ridiculous,” he said instead, dropping his hands to his side and taking a half-step back.

“It might help,” Nate offered, a whisper of soft amusement in his face, “if you paid less attention to what your feet are doing.”

“It might _help_ ,” Adam parried, “if we had actual music with which to keep time, rather than the unceasing racket outside,” and he felt as much as heard his friend’s laughter, rich and warm, enveloping the space between them and spilling through the open window into the clangor of the city streets below.

“The waves of the sea are sometimes still,” Nate said, more to himself than to Adam, the thread of laughter still looping through his voice, “but Paris is the noise that never dies.”

“And so,” Adam muttered, “it would seem, is Vienna.”

Adam thought, but did not say aloud, that his faith in Nate’s ability to have a literary reference for anything could probably rival the most devout followers of any mere religion. He did not need to; he knew, just as he knew the sound of Nate’s smile, that his own internal retort would be just as audible to Nate with little more than the tightening of his mouth or the quirk of one pale brow.

It had not always been like this for them: these silent conversations that were more a dialogue between their bodies than their voices or minds. And, yet, it had, as familiar and natural as breath itself.

As familiar a feeling in this place, in this time, as it had been in another. As it had been so many years, so many lifetimes ago, in the impossibly fresh memories of his youth. Of the silent, secret codes of children, communicating without words across rooms, behind their parents’ backs. Of the necessity of that peculiar, unspoken language on the stuffy, crowded feasts on saints’ days, with too many people at whom he must smile politely, too many rules to remember, and too many hours spent indoors, quiet and still. Those endless hours of sitting, of forced patience…and of passing notes without writing with his siblings, in the secrecy of careful, casual gestures and quicksilver shared glances. 

He had thought, once, that perhaps those silent conversations were a uniquely human thing, perhaps not for everyone but at least for him, their language lost forever with the rest of his humanity and all its trappings. But now (and before now), he knew that he had been wrong. He had not lost his language; he had simply not found his people. Or, he supposed, person.

Nate, meanwhile, had crossed to the open window and was gazing thoughtfully at the city below. Though it was early yet, the two vampires had started their day hours ago. Despite the hour, the Ring appeared as awake as they were. Horse-drawn carriages and trams clattered rhythmically along the wide, cobblestone streets, both sides of which were already lined with pedestrians and peddlers of all kinds, their stalls full of produce, flowers, and sundry other items. Directly across from their hotel, hopeful street musicians were setting up in front of the massive fountain next to the _Hofoper_ , as though wishing the ornate backdrop might spill some of its gilt-edged splendor on them by virtue of proximity.

Indeed, the magnificent state opera house bore no small share of responsibility for their morning activities: Thursday next was the annual Opera Ball, the crown jewel of Vienna’s ball season. If most of the season’s events were already tailored towards the upper echelons of the Empire’s society, the annual Opera Ball was true _haute couture_ : bespoke and one-of-a-kind, the glittering gala reminded one why Vienna had become known as the Imperial City. Those who expected an invitation often planned their whole year around the ball; if a family had a daughter preparing to make her debut that evening, preparations might take several years of planning and coaching. Accordingly, the presence of the royal family, along with much of their court, was a foregone conclusion — especially this year, if there were any hope of maintaining appearances after the mysterious and violent deaths of the Crown Prince and his mistress a mere few weeks prior.

And, so, too, was the presence of the specialist agents to be thus expected.

Though one of them was considerably less pleased with the assignment.

Adam had just opened his mouth to ask what had so captured Nate’s attention at the window, when the taller man turned back towards the sitting room.

“I have an idea,” he said, stepping towards Adam again. “It isn’t _quite_ the same as the ensembles we’ll hear next week, but…” he trailed off, reaching for Adam’s arm, and pulling him closer to the open window. “Listen. What do you hear?”

“Beyond the aforementioned racket?” His lips curved in a half-smile at Nate, who chuckled softly.

“Beyond the racket, yes.” He moved to stand beside Adam at the window, releasing his arm only to rest his hand on Adam’s broad shoulder. “Close your eyes for a moment and listen again. Not to any one sound, but to all of them. Indulge me,” he said, giving Adam another soft, coaxing smile.

And so, as he often did, Adam humored his friend and let his eyes drift shut. For a long moment, the two stood there in perfect silence before the open window, letting the morning sounds of the streets below blanket them just as the snow had insulated the city.

And then, just as Adam had begun debating whether he could open his eyes and stop attempting to hear anything other than a disorganized cacophony from the streets below, Nate began humming, soft and low.

Adam had no idea what the tune was, only that it was melodic and strangely lovely above the pealing tram bells and clattering hooves below. After a few moments, Nate stopped, and Adam opened his eyes, shifting a bit to look at Nate.

“Now what do you hear?” Nate asked again, watching Adam’s face.

And then he knew. He knew what Nate had been hearing in all the bustling clangor. Nate had heard the underlying rhythm of it, the steady beating thrum of the city itself, pulsing and true as any other heartbeat. And then he’d pulled a melody from it, so clear to Adam now that he wondered at himself for not having heard it himself. But it had always been like this between them: always one of them sensing something the other had not.

Adam felt his lips curve once more in a small smile as he and Nate looked at each other. And though it was small, Nate could see the barest shadow of dimples creasing the corners of his mouth. He always seemed to forget that Adam had dimples, so rarely did his old friend smile enough to summon them.

Then their ghost was gone, Adam’s smile having turned a bit resigned. “I suppose we ought to resume this practice. Even we are not immune to the relentless press of time.”

Another silent exchange, and then they were moving further into the center of the room, facing each other, and preparing to resume the dance, accompanied by the music Nate had conjured for them.

“Now,” Nate said, reaching for Adam’s right hand, cupping their fingers around each other before lifting their joined hands between them and then out.

“Forty-five-degree angle here,” he drew two fingers of his free hand from Adam’s wrist to the soft crease of his elbow. “Your partner will cup her fingers over yours,” he wiggled his own fingers, curled just so over Adam’s.

“Your other hand,” Nate reached to pull Adam’s free hand towards him. “On your partner’s scapula, here.” He pulled Adam’s hand behind his own back, to rest on his shoulder blade. Then Nate moved his right hand to rest on Adam’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Drop your shoulders a bit — feel how my shoulder blade is relaxed? And —” he slid his hand from Adam’s shoulder to tilt his chin up. “— don’t look down. The Viennese waltz is not about thinking. Don’t strategize your next steps,” he teased gently. “Just listen and feel. You will lead your partner, but the music is what should be leading you.”

And so, Adam, feeling strange and unfamiliar in the new skin of this dance, attempted to let himself do rather than think. To be led by feeling rather than plan, determined as ever to succeed in this odd challenge.

He listened. He felt. And they began to move.

He heard: not the discordant chaos of too many sounds from too many corners at once, but rather a steady driving rhythm, constant as a heartbeat. Heard the _one_ -two-three clip of hooves on cobblestones sure as any bass line. Tram bells clinking bright as cymbals. The indistinct rumble of conversation droning and sweeping along, sonorous as any string section, accompanied by the faint strands of the buskers’ instruments in front of the opera house. And above all of these, he heard them tied miraculously together by the low, melodic humming of the man with whom he danced.

He felt: the cool press of Nate’s ring against his hand, the smooth silver band a harder ridge than the comparatively soft skin of his fingers. Felt the press of its twin through the starched linen of his shirt, along his collarbone, where Nate’s thumb rested, hand curled over Adam’s shoulder. He’d never asked from whence the rings had come, for what purpose Nate wore them. Had never, come to think of it, seen him take them off, either (although he undoubtedly did in order to clean and polish them; Adam had seen the meticulous care with which Nate approached his belongings, from their choosing, to their usage, to their maintenance.). How had he never thought to inquire about them? After so many years — so many, many years — had he never thought to wonder about them even in the privacy of his own mind?

Adam supposed he’d just assumed they were merely an aesthetic choice, like so many other items in his friend’s possession. It was true that Nate did enjoy material belongings merely because he found them lovely or well-crafted, either in addition to or with no concern of their utility. He wasn’t frivolous (although to Adam’s standards, anything beyond a Spartan existence was approaching cavalier frivolity). He was merely somewhat Epicurean in his tastes and habit of living.

But he tended to outfit himself — although in finely tailored items, to be sure — more simply, choosing well-made everyday items rather than things that drew attention or included various accessories. Indeed, he wore no other accessories, certainly no other jewelry, to the best of Adam’s recollection.

So how had he not thought, in all their years together, to have asked about the two plain silver bands he was never without, those mysterious rings that, Adam saw now, were perhaps glaringly uncharacteristic of his typical manner of dress?

The two spun in progressively neater whirling box-steps until, eventually, Nate stopped humming and they gradually slowed to a stop.

“That,” Nate said, looking slightly flushed, either with the dance or sheer pleasure or both, “was much better.”

Through the open window, the heartbeat of the Imperial City thrummed on.

—

As he always did, Adam entered the following week’s _redoute_ fully prepared for what was required of him. They both did, of course — but this mission was one for which Nate, with all his charm and natural elegance, had long been prepared. Thankfully, Adam thought, as they separated, blending into the glittering crowd of revelers to seek information and, therefore, dance partners. Thankfully one of us was already prepared, ready to guide the other towards this night.

But as Adam made his way onto the glossy parquet dance floor, it was not the orchestral splendor of Strauss’s latest opus that he heard as he spun his partner capably on the lacquered floor. Instead, Adam heard the low, melodic hum of his oldest friend, each note resonant and true, above the steady _one_ -two-three clip of horse-drawn carriages clattering across the cobblestones on the streets below their window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I can't let a "teachable moment" pass me by, here's some fun trivia from this chapter: 
> 
> \- Nate’s reference to the noise of the city is a paraphrase of something John Sanderson wrote in the summer of 1835, the first time he visited Paris: “All things of this earth seek, at one time or another, repose — all but the noise of Paris. The waves of the sea are sometimes still, but the chaos of these streets is perpetual from generation to generation; it is the noise that never dies.”
> 
> \- The Viennese waltz was considered scandalous when first introduced (around this time period) because it was one of the first society dances that specifically paired dance partners for the duration of the dance (as opposed to, say, a quadrille, which included rotating partners but was much more of a group dance and did not include the kind of close intimacy one sees in modern ballroom dance). 
> 
> \- Nate and Adam are staying at the famous Hotel Sacher (from which we get the quintessential Viennese cake, the Sachertorte), which is indeed on the Opernring section of the Ringstrasse, facing the State Opera House. Called die Oper today, it was called the Court Opera (die Hofoper) when it was first established.

**Author's Note:**

> Nate strikes me as the kind of person who would have run across Mendel’s work when it was originally published in 1866, although it wasn’t widely recognized for its profound worth until the 1900s (and Punnett squares weren’t conceived until 1928!). Coincidentally, Mendel was actually born and lived not far from where this story is set, in what would become the Czech Republic. He died in 1884, almost five years to the day in which this story is set.


End file.
